


forbidden fruit

by byblue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Cursed Child AU, F/M, PLEASE google him if you don't know who he is, Very AU, and draco is!!! james howard, cursed child spoilers, definitely if you haven't seen the show OR read the script, don't bash me if i suck at draco, dramione - Freeform, hermione is like older!emma watson just for clarification, his whole vibe and aesthetic in this show is important to his POV in this!!!!!!!, i have no idea how spoiler-y this is going to get but, marital affair, please leave ur comments down below if you enjoy it!!!!!, probably angst?, smut warning, this is au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byblue/pseuds/byblue
Summary: Twenty years too late, Draco tries his luck with the girl he was mean to at school. He'll probably get punched again.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s extremely late.

The enchanted clock on his mantelpiece makes sure to inform him of that — had he still a wife to return home to, he’d be settled in bed, with her in his arms by now.

But the fates had bestowed upon him the life of a widower. And if he does not pour all that time and attention, he once spent on his wife into something productive, then what shall become of Draco Malfoy? His father had always said that idle hands were the work of a lesser man; that Malfoys kept themselves busy. Work came in different forms for a man of his wealth, status and power. Surprisingly enough, though Draco had never dared to share this with his father, he was quite fond of working with his hands. Something about getting his hands dirty, quite literally, was incredibly satisfying to him. Gratifying, even.

His late wife had insisted they’d have a garden.

A ridiculous notion, he had insisted. At first. They had cooks. Servants. Let them worry about how they’d come by their produce themselves. But ah, sweet Astoria. She, too, enjoyed working with her hands, and it was through her that Draco had grown a deep love for the British soil.

And it was through losing her, that he lost that love.

Hadn’t it also been through her that he had allowed himself to love? Learned to, perhaps, too. And it was through her that he had shut himself off again.

He had Scorpius, of course. So, he wasn’t completely alone or devoid of meaning. His wife had seen to that. She knew him better than he knew himself, it had seemed, for leaving him a son, even if by doing so, she had essentially, doomed herself. He’d always blame himself for it. Her falling ill. Her death. Everything in between. He carried in him this immense guilt, and it was thrust upon him from birth.

There were many years of guilt Draco carried upon his shoulders, and it’s perhaps those years of guilt that has him working these unsociable, hard hours. If he didn’t know his Minister for Magic to be as driven as he was, he’d dare say that he was the last person to leave the Ministry building. But if Draco knows one thing…

He knows that no one could be more driven than Hermione Granger.

The mention of her name brings a smile to his lips. A strange notion, yes. But he’s alone, and he doesn’t have to pretend. Does he? He likes her. He always liked her.

He once wrote her a letter, which he never sent, in which he talked about things he hadn’t even shared with Astoria and apologised for the way he had treated her. Perhaps it was unfair that he would focus on her so much when he had been horrible to so many, but even Draco knew that he had always been particularly horrible to Hermione. He’d always say it was due to pressure from his father to be something other than what he truly was, to walk in his shoes, as it were, but it was something more than that. Now that he’s a grown man, he can admit to it. Obviously, not to her face.

Hermione was muggleborn.  
  
And yet Hermione was better than him at… anything magic related. Except, perhaps, flying. That was a small victory Draco held close to heart. She wasn’t fond of flying, and he was certain that she only really attended Quidditch games during their time in school, to support Harry.

These days, he finds himself thinking about Hermione Granger quite a bit. With Astoria gone, he had free time. Quite a bit of it. How many nights, like this very night, had he found himself standing outside her office door?

He knows she’s inside. He can hear the music. It’s a muggle artist. Mozart. Draco had done some research, once he had listened to an entire symphony one night, and had the song stuck in his head ever since. Unbeknownst to the rest of his peers, he had more knowledge of the muggle world than many were aware of.  Another gift Astoria had blessed him with, before she parted.

Acceptance.

And it’s through that acceptance, perhaps, that he can admit to himself, at least, that he had always, deep down, been in love with Hermione Granger.

It’s foolish to hope that now, so many years later, when she is a woman married, a mother of two children that aren’t his, the Minister for Magic of Great Britain, their great nation’s heroine and perhaps one of the most famous witches of their generation, she would look at him with something other than professional courtesy.

When had he gotten up from his office and made the journey here?

Merlin. He’s gone mad. But here he is, nonetheless, and there she is, behind that door. Her assistant is gone. The paintings that decorate the hallway are asleep, the candles all put out except for the two by her door.

His heart is drumming inside his ribcage. Like a bird, desperate for freedom. What if he were to just knock, and finally, hand her the letter he never finished and never sent? She deserved an apology, even if she had forgiven him a long time ago. She was the brightest witch of her age, after all. But not only was she bright, she was kind. Understanding, in ways that befuddled him. He got to watch her rise to power; climb through political ranks and the glory of fame that could’ve easily gobbled her up and become something that Albus Dumbledore himself would’ve been proud of.

It'd pain him to say it aloud, but damn it, was she _brilliant_. And exactly what they all needed.

Hermione Granger was the future. And he, was the very embodiment of the past her very existence and rise to power eliminates.

Perhaps it’s that which drives him to knock at her door. Twice. Once he hears her voice from the other side, a calm and melodic: “ _Come in_ ,” he throws all caution out the window and does just that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get... steamy. Nothing makes much sense. Draco's still working it out.

“The werewolf situation in Wales is really getting out of hand, Ha— you’re not Harry,” she seems confused at first, when she looks up from the many folders, she has spread across her desk to find none other than Draco Malfoy standing outside her door. Which shut behind him just then, sealing the both of them in that office. Alone. Late at night.  

If they weren’t a witch and a wizard, they’d both use the word _magic_ to describe what happens when they’re in a room in close proximity to one another.

As it stands, neither the brightest witch of her time nor the heir of the Malfoy dynasty can say what exactly this spark between them is. But she feels it, just as he does. Perhaps it isn’t as all consuming to her as it is to him. But Hermione isn’t stupid. Even Ronald has noticed the longing looks Draco throws her way when he thinks no one is watching.

He challenged her in ways that no one else dared to. Pushed her to limits that she didn’t think was possible. His very presence in the cabinet was an affront to everything she represented, but at the same time, it was a way to start anew. Fresh. But still, the way that he pushed past that bubble of respected adoration her reputation had earned her over the years, and quite literally, stands inches from her…

The electricity between them was enough to power all of Soho.

“A few inches too tall and a lot more charming, I’m afraid.” Draco had this completely blank look on his face. Something which he had perfected along the years. It was an art. The art of concealing yourself. Masking any and all indications of emotions. Of anything.

It was his eyes that gave him away.

And that spark. He couldn’t mask that away. His fingers are dancing by his leg, doing that tic thing they do, as he takes deliberate, slow steps towards her desk. She seems as transfixed by what’s happening as he is. And he’s not quite sure what’s happening, either. Was he dreaming? He doesn’t remember drinking anything out of the ordinary — the usual glass of firewhiskey. Hardly what you’d call drunk.  “That’s highly debatable.” There was the ghost of a smirk that threatened to show its face, but the Minister seemed otherwise unaffected by all of this.

It was like a game they were playing. Each aware that the other was aware they were playing. Pretending to be unaware.

“What can I do for you, Mister Malfoy?”

She’s using her Minister voice on him. He knows it well, by now. He had attended enough meetings and public announcements, to know that this was the voice she used to address unwanted questions. Many of those asked by none other than himself. He has half a mind to grab her, right then. Kiss her right and proper. He doubts that Weasley knows how to kiss a woman like her. The way she deserves to be kissed.

But she is not his. She would never be his.

So, when he is by her desk, he examines one of his rings, instead. Polishing the beady eye of a rock for the serpent he wore on his index finger. “I noticed that your lights were still on.” His eyebrows are raised, and he has this very nonchalant expression on his face, as he looks down at her. The light of the fireplace and the candles compliment her skin. He can see the reflection of the fire dancing in her hazel eyes. Astoria’s eyes had been light. Pale. Beautiful, in their delicacy. Hermione’s were warm and violent in their beauty. Does Weasley tell her she has beautiful eyes? Does he spend the amount of time he would, staring into them?

“Does your husband not miss you; I wonder?”

Now, he has that air of the arrogant teenage dipshit that had the gall to call her a mudblood as if she were any lesser than he. She rises with that same fire he had seen in her many times before, including that time she had hit him, and his skin burned for days on end, until he felt like he might die if she didn’t touch him again. Her hands smash down on the desk, and he very casually, and daringly, sits down on the edge of her desk, one buttock and leg on the desk, the other firmly on the ground. He offers her smug amusement, as she reacts exactly as he wants.

“You’re a Ministry employee, now, Mister Malfoy. You’d do _well_ to remember that before asking your _superior_ such inappropriate questions.”

She’s livid. He can see it in her eyes. Burning brighter than the fire in the room. She comes alive when she’s angry. Her hair comes alive, somehow. She has it in some kind of plait today. It’s beautiful, but he prefers it when she wears it down. Her entire body is locked into place in a mixture of frustration, anger. Mostly frustration. Her knuckles wouldn’t be so white otherwise. “I disagree, _Miss_ Granger,” he makes sure to enunciate that Miss. “But isn’t that precisely why you offered me this job?”

“ _I_ didn’t offer you anything. The cabinet did.”

She wants to hit him. He can feel it. “Ah — but you approved it.” She’s leaning forward. Closer. He’s hit by the intoxicating scent of her perfume. Something earthy and warm. Spices? Or flowers. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but it’s addictive. He leans forward, too. She’s inches away. Suddenly the warm hazel is a vibrant honey and he wants to drown in it. He wants to undo that French do and unravel every part of her that he doesn’t know. He wants to understand Hermione Granger in a way no one else does.

His pale eyes are kissing every inch of her freckled skin. To the tip of her nose to the cupid bows of her lips to the dip of her collarbone, or the ink stains on her hands. The contrast of the deep purple, long-sleeved, figure flattering dress she was wearing. His hand is inches away from her left one. Thumb ghosting along the shape of her thumb.

“Stop it,” her voice is quieter than he ever heard it.

It’s a plea. But a desperate command, too. And he’s shaken out of this daze. This… spell. Clearing his throat, he’s off her desk, brushing his fingers against one another, rubbing his hand over his face as he turned his back on her.

He can hear her breathe, and it’s not what he wants. No. He wants her. He needs her. She’s the only thing that he has left to want. To take. To make his own. He lost everything else. The only reason he accepted this damned Ministry job would be, so he’d be closer to her. It’s pathetic to think that he’d go so low, but he’s desperately lonely and by Merlin, does he want this woman. The silence is deafening, but so much more is the thing inside which threatens to choke him.

“It’s late.” Eventually, he hears her announce it, as if it wasn’t obvious.

As if either of them hadn’t been waiting for the other to do just this. As if they hadn’t been singing each other siren songs from opposite sides of the building. He hears shuffling, his eyes shut. It isn’t until her scent smacks him across the face as she walks by, that he opens his eyes to find her wearing her cloak, walking, with purpose, towards the door.

Merlin knows what came over him, but he doesn’t seem to be at all in control of himself this night. He grabs her elbow and pulls her towards him, until her small frame is flush against him. His hold on her is light. But the way he holds her with his eyes isn’t. The way he dares not touch her physically he does so with his eyes, with the way that he’s torn between her eyes and her lips, ever begging for his touch.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to read her thoughts.

She looks broken. Tortured. And he wants to hold her and tell her that it’s okay. Like he couldn’t do at the manor, when his aunt tortured her and carved her flesh. He wants to kneel down in front of her and give her his life. It’s only fair. And it’s terrifying that he could love a woman he had such a complicated relationship with like this, so intensely and brightly, for so long — it doesn’t even make much sense! He had been married for two decades, for crying out loud! Successfully, too! Astoria had meant so much to him. But Astoria had also freed him. She taught him to accept love, to want love, to seek it, and he just had to do it with _her_ , didn’t he?

Out of all the women in the world, it had to be her.

“I’m sorry,” his voice is so hoarse it sends shivers down her spine. A thing which she’s glad he can’t see. She never felt this kind of physical reaction to Ron’s voice. Her hand is on his chest, and she’s puddle in his arms. Where’s her strength now? She’s the leader of a community! But she’s giving into this. “Do—”  
  
“No. Let me— please. Hermione,” the use of her name is special. He speaks it like a prayer, his hand finally cupping her cheek, as the other held her arm. “I’m sorry. Nothing I every say or do will ever atone for… everything. But I am, sorry. So deeply. So terribly. I need you to know that. I need you to hear it. I want you t—”

There had been many things he expected to happen.

One of them had definitely not been her throwing her arms around his neck and slamming her lips into his. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s raw and pure want. Desperate, even. He loses balance, and stumbles backwards, until he’s against her desk. The parchments are gone, thankfully. And she’s soon pulling at the silk ribbon tying his silver hair back and tugging at the strands. He’s lost, unsure what to do. Where his hands should go. She does it for him, when she tugs him down and his hands are on—

 _Good Merlin_ , that’s her arse.

“Hermione—” It’s more of a moan than a protest, particularly when he finds himself pressing her against the desk. Her cloak is on the floor, discarded. Her doing or his, he’s not sure, and he’s supporting her thighs with his hands, the skirt of her dress hitched up, so he feels skin. Tantalisingly soft skin. His fingers are possessive, hungry. His body reacts almost immediately to the way she bites his lip, kisses his neck, tugs at his hair. _Fucking hell_ , his body reacts to the way she smells when he finally kisses her neck. Nose brushing against her skin as he kisses gently at her flesh. He’s gentle, whereas she’s desperate and wanting. Her legs have him a prisoner, forcing his growing erection against her, as he takes his time just… feeling her.

He’d walk up and down that hallway so many times a night.

He’d pace up and down and wonder what he’d say to her, when he’d finally work up the courage to walk in and tell her how he feels. How he felt. He had it all worked out in his head, or so he thought. But from the minute he stepped in, he was a mess. He was overwhelmed by her and this want and everything else. And it had been so long. Astoria died a long time ago and Hermione Granger was so divine. Draco was still a red-blooded man, after all. Teasing her was fun. Pushing her buttons and watching her get all worked up was great. But this? Her thighs in his hands, her dress unbuttoned, his coat half open. “ _Hermione_ — Hermione— Hermione, _wait_ —”

He has to stop her when he feels her hand reaching for a… sensitive part of his body. Both hands grab hold of hers, as he pulls back to look at her.

She looks… like nothing he has ever seen.

So radiant. How could someone look this ethereal in their 40s? He feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. How does Weasley let this woman get out of bed? The way she looks at him. Plait messy, lips kiss swollen, eyes burning with want, love marks all over her neck. Draco was throbbing hard just looking at her. _MERLIN._ Why did he have to grow a conscious?

“Do you ever shut up?”

He has to laugh. Astoria used to ask him the same thing. In different situations. But the same thing. He smooths over her thighs, squeezing him and eliciting sounds out of her that would make a younger version of himself… not last long enough. He finally settles his hands on her waist. The music in the background wasn’t enough of a distraction from her cleavage. “We’re not going to have sex on your desk,” he was very determined on that. He could feel her wanting to protest, but he slammed her down on her desk, and started pulling her knickers down her legs.

She seemed confused.

He enjoyed that. A lot. Hermione Granger. _Confused_. She tried to sit up, but he held her down, pressing a hand on her stomach, the other spreading her legs as he positioned himself on his knees, somewhere between her legs and her dress. He did think he had to atone by going down on his knees, didn’t he? When he had his tongue inside her, she didn’t seem to mind this kind of apologising. He begged for her forgiveness with the strokes of his tongue, until she came. Twice. Astoria had always said how good he was at this, and with the music Hermione made, music sweeter than the music she had playing in the background, how could he question that he _wasn’t_?

It was only when she was flushed and sweaty and mewling like a kitten that he kissed his way to her breasts, suckling on a nipple, pulling her closer by her legs. His hair was a mess, and he was harder than he had been in forty-odd years. But this was about _her_. Not him.

“Do y—”

His head nuzzled between her breasts; she pressed her finger against his lips. He smirked against it. “Don’t ruin it.” She seemed to understand what he wanted. Maybe. He’s not sure how long he spent in that awkward, uncomfortable position. Stroking every bit of naked skin, he could touch. Listening to her heart beating. Drowning in her scent. When she decided to move, all he could do was lean against her desk and watch her try to recompose herself to something presentable. He was still hard. He was still…

Merlin.

He’s even more in love, now.

How strangely, these emotions work. She looks at him, as she closes the clasp of her cloak. There’s something in her eyes. Something sad and... something he doesn’t like. Was it pity? She goes home to her husband and her youngest son. He goes home to an empty manor, with naught but his ghosts as company. And craving her more than he ever had before, for now he had had a taste. He knew what she tasted like. What she felt like. She’s like honey, in his mouth. And he wants more. Merlin knows he has half a mind to grab her and fuck her into the wall.

But instead, he watches her leave.

There’s no longing goodbye. Not even an exchange of words. She simply… turns off the music, puts out the fire with a wave of her wand, and leaves. He stands there in mild darkness, the door open, waiting for him, for at least ten minutes, before he finally manages to leave the altar where he had worshipped her.

So now he goes home to his ghosts, but mostly, he goes home to the memory of the forbidden fruit he’s been craving since he was a teenager.

My, was she worth the wait.


End file.
